


Ain't No Sunshine When He's Gone...

by ella



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Brock is a halfway decent human being AU, Brock isn't such a bad guy, But no, Gen, Gore, HYDRA Trash Party, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hydra Trash, Jack has had enough of everyone's shit, M/M, Multi, PTSD, Pierce is the real dickbag here, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Steve is basically being manipulated a lot, Trauma, Violence, Yes there is a happy ending, ace jack rollins, and John Garrett, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, ite not fun getting there, its not pretty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ella/pseuds/ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock and Jack move forward, hoisting the Asset’s body (Which is much, much heavier than you would think, though the mechanical arm does add a considerable amount of weight) into the chair. He fights them and Brock meets Jack’s eyes, wishing that the other would help him in his foolhardy fantasies of giving this.. superhuman killing machine the happy ending he deserves. Jack only gives him the darkest of death glares as the restraints snap into place and they step back.<br/>This is Brock’s least favorite part, but he forces himself to remain as stoic as he possibly can. He’s been through some shit, wakes up in the middle of the night sweating and shaking, but this is worse than that. This is worse than all his nightmares, childhood trauma and PTSD combined.<br/>The screams make his stomach clench and he tastes bile in his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't No Sunshine When He's Gone...

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say one thing.  
> This is an Alternate Universe where Rumlow isn't quite as bad.  
> I don't own anything.  
> No betas, just me and lots of coffee, LOVE Y'ALL!

The drugs don’t ever seem to do much. The Asset is finally back in Hydra’s custody and despite the ungodly amount of Phencyclidine that’s been pumped into his veins, he’s still fighting and doing a hell of a job of it.  
Brock is only following the group of beefy field agents and security personal that are hauling the screaming, kicking body down the narrow hallways of the underground facility, mostly just trying his best to yell over the noise that “Everything is okay! Calm down!” But the Winter Soldier either can’t hear him, or doesn’t give a shit. Its most likely the latter.  
One of the men, must be Marcus because he’s probably the only one strong enough, hoists the Asset into the air in an attempt to make their going easier. All that does is destroy one or two of the overhead light fixtures that illuminate the whitewashed corridor and they’re forced to try other strategies. Someone pulls out a stun baton and Brock winces as the vicious string of Russian breaks into a scream of pain. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid all along.  
“Stand down! Stand down!” He yells, running forward and trying to push through the crowd of agents all pressed close together, jostling one another into the bricks by their sides. “Stop it!” The Asset is on the floor by the time he gets there, Marcus has him by the left arm, easily dragging him across the rough surface towards their destination while he’s to busy trying to fend Pharrel’s (Of course he was the one with his stupid electrical baton out, as if it’s necessary at all!) attack to try and escape again. “Put that thing away!” Brock snaps, grabbing the agent’s wrist and pushing him back into the crowd before turning to the Asset. He’s caught sight of Brock and is now reaching out to him, babbling incessantly, his eyes wide, full of panic. He knows exactly where they’re taking him, and he doesn’t want to go.  
Its times like these that Brock is very happy he’s ignored Jack’s prodding to actually learn how to speak Russian. He doesn’t want to know what Winter is saying to him, trying to appeal to the STRIKE commander’s humanity, begging him to please, please help.. He gathers that much, it isn’t difficult.  
Finally, they reach the Chamber. Its a large rectangular room, the walls painted a blinding white, made only worse by the many fluorescent lights overhead. Doctor Flynn is there, his lab coat hanging loosely around his hunched shoulders and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, which is probably the case. No one has.. The Chair is in the middle of the room, hooked haphazardly to the outdated electrical wiring of this underground shit hole. As soon as the Asset sees it, he breaks down, free hand shooting out to grab the doorframe in a last ditch effort to get away, his angry curses and insults dissipating into weeping and begging for mercy as he engages Marcus in what has to be the most fucked up game of tug-of-war ever. Pherrel kicks the flesh and blood hand, loosening his grip enough to where they can drag him all the way inside.  
When they let him go, the Asset stays, curling up on the concrete floor, hiding his face and sobbing uncontrollably. Brock sends everyone out except Jack, who is sporting a black eye and a dislocated shoulder thanks to Winter.  
“Where was he?” Flynn limps slowly and methodically over to Jack to make sure he’s alright, ignoring the pathetic heap of psychological dysphoria on the floor and the mournful wailing that imitated from him.  
“Brooklyn..” Brock answers shortly. He doesn’t want to talk about it, they’ll all read his report when he gets around to writing it up and he’s not in the mood to answer any questions. Instead, he squats down next to the Asset, shushing him as comfortingly as he dares. Many of the techs, doctors and higher-ups think that any softness will result in weakness and Brock understands what they mean..he doesn’t change his methods though..  
The Asset looks up at him, his blue eyes red from crying, tears having cut paths through the dirt and dried blood on his cheeks. He chokes out a few words and Brock picks up “please” and “help”..it doesn’t make him feel better.  
“You’re gonna be okay..” He says, trying to sound sincere. He’s pretty sure he and the Asset have very different views on what ‘Okay’ means. After all, Brock isn’t the one who has to sit in that chair, experience that chair…and for that he is forever grateful.  
“Someone explain what in the hell happened!” Senator Pierce bursts through the doors of the Chamber, so immaculate in his blue suit, all cufflinks and graying red hair. He looks like he’s come from a party and Brock wouldn’t put it past him, especially given how royally pissed off he looks. No old man, especially one as dirty and perverted as Alexander Pierce, likes being dragged away from champagne and models, while socializing with his fellow frat brothers in Trump Tower. His steely eyes flicking over all of them, taking in every detail of the situation and zeroing in on Winter who shrinks down as best he can, poor thing. Pierce walks slowly forward, his shiny shoes clicking on the floor and its oddly intimidating. “Tell me..what happened.” He says with a voice made of ice.  
The Asset scrambles to his knees and begins talking again, a million miles an hour and Brock isn’t even sure its an actual language he’s speaking.  
“In English.” Pierce hisses, making the Asset stop, his hands are outstretched and he’s hyperventilating, looking around the room as if searching for someone who isn’t there.  
“I don’t…I don’t wanna be here..” He says and Brock is shocked when he hears. Normally, the Asset doesn’t really ever talk and when he does, its mostly in Russian, short one word answers. On the off chance he does speak English, his accent is so thick that sometimes its hard to understand even that… He has no accent now, well, not Rooskie anyway. He sounds like he crawled right out of a Brooklyn gutter. “I don’t wanna be here, I wanna go home! Please let me go home..” Its so pathetically heartbreaking. “I got..I got so much to do, you understand, I gotta get his medicine and its late…he’ll be worried and then he’ll stay up all night and catch a cold.. I know it don’t sound like a big deal, mister, but if gets a cold it gets worse so quick. Might end up with pneumonia and..and that might kill’m.. He’s so weak..he’s so weak…” He just keeps going on and on about this mysterious ‘him’ who obviously has the worst immune system in the world. Brock might laugh if he didn’t feel sick to his stomach. A part of him just wants to say “Sure, Winter. You can go home.’ and then he would help the soldier up, get him a decent meal for once, dress him in something comfortable and warm, hand him a duffle bag and ‘See ya!’..because god..he just wants all this to end..he wants it over.  
“I’ve seen enough,” Pierce says, his voice sounds disgusted and he steps back, nodding at Flynn and Brock. “Get him in the chair and have the lab techs put him back in to Cryo as soon as you’re done. I’ll get Maggie to forge a cover story and clean up this mess.” He walks towards the door, the two bodyguards that followed him in continuing in his retreat while the Asset begins to scream again, half English, begging to be let go, the others in various languages probably doing the same.  
“Well, you ‘eard the man..” Flynn says. Brock and Jack move forward, hoisting the Asset’s body (Which is much, much heavier than you would think, though the mechanical arm does add a considerable amount of weight) into the chair. He fights them and Brock meets Jack’s eyes, wishing that the other would help him in his foolhardy fantasies of giving this.. superhuman killing machine the happy ending he deserves. Jack only gives him the darkest of death glares as the restraints snap into place and they step back.  
This is Brock’s least favorite part, but he forces himself to remain as stoic as he possibly can. He’s been through some shit, wakes up in the middle of the night sweating and shaking, but this is worse than that. This is worse than all his nightmares, childhood trauma and PTSD combined.  
The screams make his stomach clench and he tastes bile in his mouth. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang… Brock opens his eyes and groans, light searing through his brain like someone has taken a laser to his pupils. God, he feels like shit, head about to explode, body made of jello.. there’s drool on the floor where his face was two seconds ago and something that smells like rubbing alcohol is spilled next to him…oh yeah, that would be the Tequila.  
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.. Is there someone at his door? He pulls himself awkwardly to his feet and stumbles out of the bathroom where he apparently passed out on the floor next to the toilet. Great, he spent the whole night with his face in the dirtiest part of the house, that is just a cold hard fact. He knows his aim isn’t the best and he also knows he doesn’t clean up his apartment at all like he should. He was kind of asking for it.. deserved it even…  
Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang.. “Alright, alight, I’m coming, Jesus Christ. This building better be burning to the fucking ground!” He rips the door open and blinks a few times before he can see clearly.  
“Hi,” Jack says shortly. He’s got a file in his hand, the permanent sourpuss look on his face somewhat softened. “Wild night?” His lips actually twitch a little, like he might smile. Yeah, like that would ever happen.  
“Yeah..” Brock says, making no attempt at masking the sarcasm as he steps back, beckoning his friend inside. “I..went out, met a pretty girl, got drunk and was up all night having the best sex ever..no. I drank myself into a stupor, alone and fell asleep in my own dried up piss.” He flashes a mirthless smile.  
“Sounds like a whole lotta fun, sorry I missed it.” Jack says, wrinkling up his nose and moving to sit on the edge of Brock’s torn to shit couch. “You know..you could really get a better place if you budgeted yourself. Maybe your own car, too…so a certain someone doesn’t have to drive you to work all the time?”  
“You love driving me to work.” Brock says, flopping down next to him and resting his head on the threadbare cushions. “Told me that the first time you ever did it.”  
“Yes, well…that was five fucking years ago.” Jack always sounds aggressive even if he isn’t. Just his voice..and his face. Yeah, he’s just an aggressive looking guy. Theres a long silence, not uncomfortable or anything, they’re used to this. “I came to see if you were okay.. you know, after what happened last night.”  
Brock says nothing, just stares up at the cracked popcorn ceiling, watching as the entire space of his vision begins to swim, everything turning inside out. He doesn’t want to think about what happened last night, but if Jack’s actually come to his house to make sure he’s okay, the least he can do is be honest. “I’m not okay.” He says, voice barely above a whisper.  
“You know it was necessary.” Jack breaths and Brock looks over at him, making a face.  
“Yeah, I’m not a fucking dumbass, dumbass.” He snaps, crossing his arms. “But I ain’t been okay with this shit for a long time. Look…I get the chair, okay, I get it, its for his own good, it keeps him from freaking out like he did the other day, but…” He scoots closer, peering around nervously. Even in the safety of his own home, he knows its possible there are bugs. He checks every so often, just because he’ll be damned if he’ll trust Hydra not to spy on him, even if he is one of their most “trusted” agents. Ha, the last one got gunned down by the Asset himself, on a mission no less… “Even you gotta admit they take it to far. Every single time they do. And I’m not talking about during training or reconditioning…It ain’t even constructive at that point! Its just torture.”  
“Since when were you squeamish about torture?” Jack says, rolling his eyes. “Remember that guy, the 499 mission, you and I went ham on him for…hours, Brock. Never saw you bat an eyelash..”  
“Information, Rollins, we were torturing him for information,” Brock hissed. “We would have died without it, so we didn’t have a choice! Plus he was a grade A asshole. But with the Asset…it ain’t about information with him, you think he got secrets they wanna know? No..they do it for fun, for fun and I am sick of it. Literally sick. First thing I did when I got home last night was lose my guts and I hadn’t even started drinking yet.”  
Jack listens, concern apparent in his scarred and hardened face. He says nothing for a long while, just studies his Commanding Officer, eyes boring into Brock until he feels completely laid bare. He’s waiting for Jack to speak some wisdom into his life, to say something, anything that will make him wake up and say ‘Oh, silly me, I’m a dumbass for feeling so sentimental,’, but he doesn’t. Eventually, Jack sighs and looks away, dropping the file he’s been carting around onto the cluttered coffee table.  
“Coulson found something big,” he says staring down at it. He looks slightly worried, like someone has told him his dog might have cancer or something but he isn’t quite sure.  
“What kinda big?” Brock huffs, somewhat miffed that Jack isn’t catering to his current emotion duress.  
“See for yourself, big man. I ain’t readin’ it for you.” Jack crosses his arms and leans back on the sofa to stare up at the ceiling while Brock, grumbling because he hasn’t got the brain capacity to read anything right now, reaches for the file and flips it open.  
There’s a small, black and white print of a photo inside of a skinny, frail looking kid, can’t be more than 20 years old, white tshirt, dog tags. Military. ‘Steven Grant Rogers, Project: Rebirth, dated 1942.’ Sounded kind of familiar. He flipped to the next page, because fuck this history lesson. There was another photo, this one real, not a print, very recent.. the same man only bigger, much bigger, ice covering most of his body, SHIELD techs in biohazard suits crowded around.  
‘During a routine sweep of the Northern Atlantic we picked up a radio signal not far off course.’ Coulson’s reports were always interesting and Brock kind of envies that. Why isn’t he allowed to do routine sweeps of the Northern Atlantic? ‘My men and I decided to touch down in the arctic, happy to find that it was no malfunction with our equipment. I’m always wary of that, because it happens more than you would expect, really. This one time Agent May and I thought we had a distress signal in Portugal but it ended up being nothing more than some twisted wires in our communications systems..’ Oh my god, get to the fucking point. ‘I contacted Directer Fury and was granted permission to excavate the site which led to the most amazing discovery of the century, in my mind at least.’ He always writes like he’s a fucking journalist, its almost infuriating! ‘As we all know, near the end of the second world war, year 1945, America’s first hero, Captain Steven Grant Rogers crash landed in the vicinity, but his plane and body were never recovered. Until now..’ So dramatic. ‘That’s right ladies, gentlemen and variations thereof, we have found the remains of the aircraft in which Captain Rogers defeated the Red Skull and saved our country for the last time. Well, perhaps not the last. Inside the craft, our team also discovered the body of Rogers himself, and it gets even better if you can believe it! What our scientists have devised so far is that the serum invented by Dr. Erskine in 1940, administered to Rogers in Project: Rebirth 1942, has kept our American hero perfectly preserved in the ice for over 70 years. Thats right folks, he is alive, we know that much. Currently still in comatose state and with no guarantee of waking, but there is a heartbeat and that’s enough for me. Thanks to everyone who has been a part of this amazing discovery, keep your fingers crossed. Who knows, you might be shaking hands with one of the bravest war heroes of our time, and undoubtedly, the most good looking. Phillip Coulson, SHIELD.’  
Brock looks up from the file to stare at Jack who is now looking right back at him, face all to readable. “No fucking way..” Brock murmurs, and Jack nods slowly. “This is a hoax, Coulson is pulling a practical joke on everyone, we all know he’s Cap’s biggest fanboy. You seen those trading cards? Course you have, he shows them to everyb…”  
“Saw him myself, Brock.” Jack says evenly, lips pressed together in a tight line. “Layin’ there on that table, with those techs, just like in the picture. It ain’t a hoax, its real.”  
There is a long and very uncomfortable pause. Its more uncomfortable than that time they had to shower together in Brussels (another story for another time..) and Brock had thought it would be funny to pinch Jack’s ass cheek. It was not funny and Jack made sure Brock knew it.. It wasn’t that he’s a homophobe or anything, really Jack is probably the most progressive member of Hydra to date, he’s just asexual and fucked Brock up for touching him without permission.  
Its so quiet between them that Brock can hear everything that he’s normally trying hard to avoid. Bird’s chirping outside, the wind blowing through the trees next to his window, cars whizzing by his house and his annoying neighbors talking loudly through the walls…He takes it all in because he could literally be dead soon. I mean, thats part of his job, being ready to die any time, but he’s always felt like he has a little control over it..now…Big old, Captain Underpants could kick down his door and knock his dick in the dirt in no time at all…  
“We are so screwed..” he breaths and Jack nods. “I mean..he died trying to bring down Hydra and he’s bound to figure it out somehow. Then he’ll be coming for all of us. I’d be pretty pissed if I woke up and found out that my enemies were all around me..”  
“Well yeah.” Jack interrupts as if Brock is missing the whole point. “And the Asset, lets not forget that..”  
“The fuck does Captain America coming to smother us to death in American flags have to do with the Asset? Unless you wanna see our boy pitted against the greatest soldier who ever lived? That is what you want! You sick bastard…”  
“No, Christ..you are so stupid…” Jack sits up straight, eyebrows drawn together in that way that casts shadows over his sharp cheekbones. “Did you not pay attention at all in history class?”  
“No,” Brock quips, tossing the file back to the coffee table. “I had better things to do..”  
“You just never thought you could use the information.” Jack hisses. “Luckily 90% of our coworkers are smart enough to do their own research, but since you’re such a fucktard, I’ll spell it out for you. The Asset..” he begins, talking slowly and deliberately as if Brock is some kind of special needs child. “Was acquired by Russians..in 1945.. 1945, Brock, only a day or two before Rogers vanished.”  
“Acquired?” Brock is at a loss. Its like drinking from a fire hydrant, all this new information, what the hell? “I thought he was Russian, born and bred.”  
“You never read any of the old reports I link you to.” Its not a question and Brock shakes his head to confirm. Jack looks like he might punch him if he didn’t have better things to do. “No, Brock… The Asset is about as Russian as Pierce. In fact…He was born in Brooklyn, 1917 and his best friend in the whole world was a little blond kid named Stevie Rogers.”  
It takes Brock a moment to process. Little bits and pieces are coming back from old school days, the teacher pulling up pictures of a group of men, the Star Spangled man with a stick up his ass standing with them..the man who always stood to his right.. the sniper… those eyes, long eyelashes, high cheekbones, the way his lips were set in a permanent pout… What the Asset had been babbling about the night before.. medicine, someone catching a cold and dying, Steve Rogers before the serum and his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad immune system! Brooklyn..  
“Are you telling me that Hydra has spent the last 20 plus years torturing, raping, maiming, manipulating and brainwashing Captain America’s old butt buddy?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“Yes.” Jack says matter of factly.  
“No…”  
“Yes, I’m 100% sure, I’ve got all the damn research references to prove it, geez, what do you take me for?” Jack is obviously offended at his lack of belief.  
“A rabble rouser…” Brock says, breaking eye contact, eyes staring off into space. There has to be a way to fix this. A way to get the Asset as far from Hydra and SHIELD and the damn popsicle that is rapidly defrosting as they speak! Far, far away where no one will ever find him and he can live a good life with whatever implanted memories they’ve shoved into his head, Brock right there to make sure that he’s not a danger to himself or anyone.. A nice cabin in the woods, next to a lake so they could fish. Brock’s never been fishing but it always looks like a whole lot of straight guy fun in the movies..and he thinks he would really like fishing with the Asset by his side, not to mention the soldier would probably just go bonkers for it, happy to be away from the confines of the facilities and all the ‘Order through pain’ bullshit…  
Of course..It might not even come to that. Steve Rogers is in a coma, one he might never wake up from. 70 years of being frozen solid with no oxygen must do a number on your brain cells. Even if he does wake up he could be retarded, or even better, a vegetable, rolling around in a wheelchair as a spectacle for everyone to see, ah..Red Skull woulda gotten a kick out of that.. This is all just going to pass. There will be no mass slaughter of Hydra operatives, no angry Captain showgirl fabulously murdering them all, no Brock having to stage a nigh romantic rescue for the Winter Soldier, currently frozen in a crate in the vault basement. He will just continue as he always has…at one point or another he will become numb to all that must be done and he can retire to his dream of fishing without the Asset, maybe Jack if he wants to. It’ll all be perfectly fine…  
Jack’s phone buzzes and he answers with a sigh. “Yes?” Brock watches as his fellow agent’s face changes from annoyance to worry, concern, borderline panic! What is it? What is it! Hangup the fucking phone and tell me everything now! “I see…Yes, yes..we’ll both be in as soon as possible.. Okay, see you soon..” He hangs up, eyes wide and looks over at Brock who is sitting on the edge of his seat, nails digging into the thread and foam of the plush chair.  
“He’s awake..”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, requests and constructive criticism always welcome.  
> Thanks so much for your time.


End file.
